


to a child dancing in the wind

by andibeth82



Series: a dialogue of self and soul [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton's Farm, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Holidays, Kid Fic, POV Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3066125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In some sense, the first few days after their arrival in coming to the farm had felt a little like returning to normal, escapism that they used to afford themselves when they needed to go off the grid and mentally regroup. The difference, he knows, is the small human that now required their attention and care, the one that neither of them thought they would ever be equipped to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to a child dancing in the wind

**Author's Note:**

> A few people have asked if I would continue to play in this sandbox, and I figured I owed the world a little look into more of an epilogue following the culmination of this series. Predictably, it apparently also allowed me to fill my urge to write farm fic and holiday fic all at once. 
> 
> Thank you kindly to all of you who still support and care about and are invested in this story -- it means a lot. While this is meant to fit into the universe of (and references events in) [a dialogue of self and soul](http://archiveofourown.org/series/58382) it is not necessary to read the whole of that fic to understand or enjoy this piece.
> 
> Thank you to fidesangelus, hjea and bobsessive, as always, for feelings and encouragement.

It’s the sun that wakes him, the too-bright glow of morning edging into the frame of a window uncovered by any kind of curtain, its presence heating a spot on his side as he squints through one open eye towards the offending silent alarm.

“Yeah, good morning to you too,” Clint mumbles to no one in particular, pressing his head back into the pillow, taking in the silence he feels he’s so rarely afforded. After a few more unsuccessful moments of attempting to return to slumber, he finally gives up, throwing off the covers and padding across the room.

Shrouded by the sun, the tendrils of falling snow are barely visible, almost indiscernible against an otherwise grey stretch of sky, though their presence becomes increasingly more obvious as they approach the small row of wilting crops, the abandoned tractor and the patches of dirt rooted in what he knows are his own tire tracks. Clint lets his gaze settle on the landscape before tearing himself away, rubbing a hand across his eye, allowing the last traces of sleep to evaporate.

“Hey, hey, hey…”

The words turn into unintelligible murmurs as he walks to the bassinet positioned against the farther wall, reaching down to wrap a hand around the mess of stirring limbs, one hand combing back a small patch of dark red hair. Clint lifts the small child easily before shifting so that he’s able to hold Alex more securely, and as if on cue, the baby opens his mouth, his face stretching into a wide yawn before he curls his head into Clint’s chest.

“Yeah, woke you too, didn’t it? Sorry about that, buddy. We’re both not used to it.”

 _Not used to it_ would be an understatement, he thinks, as he rocks the baby back and forth. It had taken what he felt was far too long to get accustomed to things like the quiet, almost delicate silence, so much so that Clint hadn’t realized exactly how pre-disposed he was to the bustle of city life until they spent their first night at the farm, and he realized he couldn’t fall asleep because everything seemed too lazy and too calm.

Then again, he had thought while turning over and allowing Natasha’s forehead to find his back, maybe this was what they needed – not just a semi-vacation in the way they couldn’t find by being in New York, but a literal removal from everything they knew after the whirlwind of the past year and a half, a period of time that Clint knows Natasha might say she wants to forget ever happened, but a sentiment that she could never actually be serious about.

Alex’s small cry brings Clint out of his sleep-addled brain and he groans slightly as he starts to make his way carefully downstairs, avoiding the wooden planks that creak more than others under his weight. He had fixed parts of the house up as best he could in the few days since they had arrived, but there was only so much that could be done on short notice and truth be told, Clint hadn’t realized just how long it had been since anyone but his family had lived within these walls.

_“Merry Christmas from the Barton’s,” he had muttered wryly when they arrived and opened the fridge to find it mostly empty except for a few cases of old wine, and Natasha had squeezed his hand and kissed the side of his arm before pulling him away, before forcing them both to drive the twenty minutes to and from the nearest convenience store._

Still, sagging décor aside, it was somehow starting to feel more like a home that had some purpose, thanks in part to the fact that Natasha had taken to leaving her things in various spots, and that among a fully-stocked fridge there were now newly acquired amenities such as a coffee maker, as well as dirty dishes in the sink and piles of baby clothes strewn over the floor of their bedroom.

Clint presses a sealed cup into the top of the mini Kuerig and grabs a bottle from the fridge as the machine sputters to life, the muscles in his dry throat twitching achingly as he watches the mug fill itself. After three long gulps that burn like fire, he finds a space on the living room couch, where he maneuvers the bottle into Alex’s mouth.

The infant relaxes in his arms, steady and solid against his still-bare skin, and Clint closes his eyes. In some sense, the first few days after their arrival in coming to the farm had felt a little like returning to normal, escapism that they used to afford themselves when they needed to go off the grid and mentally regroup. The difference, he knows, is the small human that now required their attention and care, the one that neither of them thought they would ever be equipped to deal with. Natasha had adapted to the role of “parent” better than he’d expected for all the grief and worry they had dealt with during her pregnancy, though there are still days he feels like he has to hold her hand and guide her through the journey they’re taking together, each small step another building block of learning how to allocate the infinite measures of love and trust and protection that had, until now, existed only between each other.

Alex stirs in his arms, face scrunching in a look that Clint recognizes as _enough_ , and he moves the baby to the floor of the living room, where a large patterned blanket has been spread over the peeling wood. Standing up, he surveys the Christmas tree before him; they had put it up two days ago despite Natasha’s reluctance and it’s smaller than what he knows he would have put up with his family -- definitely less decorated than what he knows Tony would have put together back in the Tower -- but there’s something fitting about the few ornamental decorations and copious strings of colored lights that circle the branches, almost as if it’s representative of the year they’ve had.

 _Give a little, get everything_ , Clint thinks to himself, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stares at the tree, frowning when he notices a few bulbs near the top that have burned out. Throwing a quick glance to Alex, who has started occupying himself with the harmless leftovers of wrapping paper, he kneels down behind the tree, groping for the plug. He feels the sharp electric shock hit his fingers before his brain actually registers it, immediately recoiling at the sensation.

 _“Son of a…”_ He bites down on his last word as the front door clicks softly, quiet footsteps trailing inside, and he’s still muttering to himself when Natasha walks into the room with one eyebrow arched in question.

“Don’t ask,” Clint says grudingly, and Natasha’s lips quirk slightly.

“If you’re teaching our son bad language before he’s two, I will lock you out of the house and you’ll be sleeping in the barn,” she says as she toes off her boots, her voice light and threatening at the same time. Clint makes a face.

“He’s safe,” he says, getting up, noticing for the first time the boxes littering Natasha’s arms. “And so am I, apparently. What the hell are those?”

“Gifts,” Natasha says, shaking out a flurry of red, white crystals staining her hair dark as they settle into her curls. She sticks her hand in her coat pocket, tossing forward a thick stack of mail that Clint easily catches with one hand. “And mail. Though I believe some of it might have been sitting in that P.O. Box since 1977.”

“You’re hilarious,” Clint shoots back as he slips the rubber band off the pile of letters and postcards. “And seriously, those are _gifts_?”

“Apparently,” Natasha says, her voice muffled as she puts down the boxes and turns to remove her scarf and her coat. “Something from Rogers, something from Stark…it makes noise when you move it, which worries me, quite honestly -- I think I even saw Maria’s name.”

“Huh.” Clint walks forward, picking up one of the boxes. “I’ve been to Medical more than anyone in this damn group and they never sent me gifts.” He shakes the package slightly and Natasha gives him a look.

“You really thought after everything, we’d get out of being thought of like this? On Christmas? On what they know is his _first_ Christmas? Rogers helped buy half of our nursery, don’t forget.”

“I guess not,” Clint admits, because maybe she’s right, but it’s one more strange thing to realize about their life, that instead of quick check-ins and maybe some new arrows, they were now being sent domesticated baby gifts by everyone from their teammates to their boss. He tosses the letters on the couch.

“And to think we could get away from everyone taking care of us,” Natasha muses as she shakes out her wet hair. Clint grins, bending down and crawling towards the baby.

“Thought that’s why we came out to the farm,” he says, his eyes following Alex’s small hands as they tangle with a pile of ribbons. Clint leans over and gently extracts them from his grasp before he can get too frustrated, and Natasha smiles slightly.

“Yeah,” she says, sitting down and leaning over to kiss Alex gently on the top of his head before nudging Clint with one thickly socked foot. “Didn’t expect you to be up this early.”

Clint shrugs, stifling a yawn. “Blame the weather. And our son,” he adds as Alex grabs for a discarded plastic ornament they’ve sacrificed for just this purpose and starts chewing on the side. “Thought you’d be longer, anyway.”

Natasha leans back on her elbows. “I’m getting pretty good at navigating my way through town. Might even be enjoying myself.”

“Might?” Clint asks as he leans over to pick up Alex, who’s started to crawl off the blanket. The baby lets out a small noise as Natasha sits up and opens her arms.

“Might,” Natasha concedes, letting Alex’s head come to a rest on her shoulder. She gets up, touching his arm lightly as she does so. “Don’t let yourself gloat too much, Barton. The look doesn’t become you.”

 

***

 

In what has become more than a nightly ritual, Natasha feeds and bathes Alex while Clint puts together their simplified version of a Christmas dinner, including store bought mashed potatoes, a ready-made roasted chicken and a few variations of canned vegetables. He had initially felt bad when he realized that unlike the gourmet variations of food JARVIS, Pepper and anyone else could concoct while living in the Tower (not to mention the multitude of take out options the city had to offer, should nothing appeal to them at any moment), the kitchen at Clint’s farm was equipped with items less futuristic and not nearly as expensive, which made cooking anything beyond easy meals a challenge. And Clint will later admit to himself maybe that wasn’t the _sole_ reason behind why he decided to get up early when he didn’t have to in order to bake a handful of chocolate-covered cookies, but it’s a reason good enough to give Natasha.

“I never thought I’d see you the day where you baked anything,” she had said when she finally made her way downstairs after showering, and he remembers thinking that it shouldn’t have affected him as much as it did when she had leaned into him ever so slightly, whispered good morning in a voice still raspy with tiredness, staying like that for far too long with one hand wrapped around her waist, as if she needed him to anchor her for just a moment longer before she stepped back into the waters on her own again. They’d shared a few of the less burnt cookies after breakfast, with Natasha allowing Alex a few crumbles that, as expected, ended up more on his outfit than inside his mouth.

Their meal is spent mostly in silence, largely because Clint is finding that the more time they spend together on their own, the more time they spend learning how to become a family – learning what they can and can’t accomplish or say or do -- there’s not much to say in each other’s presence that can’t be said or expressed in other ways. And while Clint knows they’ve always had their own intimate language, made stronger by Loki’s mess and by Natasha’s pregnancy and by everything during and afterwards, somehow, he feels like they’re refining that dialect to something even more innate and specific, something that’s now shared between three people who have a bond that’s tighter than anything they could ever explain to the world.

 

***

 

After they’ve cleaned enough of the dishes away, Clint lights a few candles in the dark windowsills while Natasha tidies what she can of the downstairs, dimming the lights on the tree until the living room is bathed in a quiet rainbow glow.

“What’s up?” she asks when she walks back into the bedroom, finding him already under the covers, his shirt littering the floor as he sifts through the mail from earlier. She picks up Alex, still soundly sleeping, wrapping him in one of the smaller fleece blankets Clint vaguely remembers Bruce giving them a few weeks earlier.

Clint looks up, catching her concern in the dim light of the moon slotting through the window near her head. “Nothing,” he lies, moving to make room for her on the bed. She casts a frustrated glance in his direction before sitting down, rocking her body progressively, and Clint waits a moment longer before he continues. “The letters.”

“You read them?” she inquires, steady with her movements as Alex starts to come awake.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “A few from Stark – apparently he thought we got here a week ago, not four days ago – and some Christmas cards from S.H.I.E.L.D., must have been automatically forwarded by Hill or someone who knew we were here. And other stuff,” he adds, trying to skirt past the tension he feels settling between them. Natasha frowns.

“Other stuff?”

“Cards from my brother,” Clint says, closing his eyes. “Stuff about his work, wondering what was going on with me. They’re old, though…guess they’ve been sitting here for awhile, but I’m also guessing no one in the Barton clan ever came back. Or didn’t bother to check the mail if they did.”

Natasha says nothing, slipping her free hand into his as thin fingers interlock and close tightly around his palm.

“You know, you’ve changed a lot in the past year,” she says after a long silence, and Clint laughs quietly.

“Not nearly as much as you.”

“Which wasn’t something I planned,” Natasha replies smoothly. “And you know those changes were something I didn’t want.” She presses a delicate kiss to Alex’s skin. “But I’m starting to think I’m better for them.”

Clint watches as she walks back to the basinet and places their son inside, waiting while she fusses with the blankets around his small body, as he knows she’s prone to do whenever she puts him down to sleep.

“You kept saying we weren’t meant to be parents,” Clint says when she’s settled beside him again, when he’s pulled the thick down comforter up over her body. He leans sideways, letting his words lose their coherence in red strands that she’s let grow past her trademark chin-length bob. “What if that’s still true?”

“What if it’s not?” Natasha counters, placing a hand on his chest, directly over his heart, and Clint thinks the position can’t be a coincidence. “We’re _never_ going to be conventional parents, Clint, you told me that. But you also told me this baby would be able to make its own choices. That it won’t be bound by our mistakes.”

“Yeah,” Clint acknowledges as Natasha presses herself more closely against him. “I did.”

“And I believed you,” Natasha continues, her voice soft. “And look where we are now.”

Clint walks his eyes over to where Alex is resting, unable to help himself. “I seem to remember that you fought me almost every step of the way on those beliefs.”

“Yes,” Natasha agrees, seemingly unapologetic. “I did. But you know why I did.”

“Because you were scared.”

Clint says the words without hesitation, turning to look at her, noting the seriousness in her eyes as she silently validates him and he knows the ball of emotion clogging his throat should be because of the fact that she’s openly admitting something so raw. But instead, it’s a quiet assortment of songs, so inaudible that Clint swears he’s hearing things until Natasha looks confused and gets up, walking to the window.

“Carolers,” she says softly as she grabs for the bottom of the sill, opening the window enough to hear better, and Clint slowly joins her from behind. “I didn’t think anyone out here went caroling.”

“Me neither,” he admits, shoving his hands under his arms. “Not this late, anyway. Not on Christmas. I think mom used to take us around to some of the other houses but it was a lot earlier and…and I think it was easier, then. You know, with more people around and stuff.” He doesn’t really say what he wants to say, but Natasha leans into him anyway, and he knows she understands.

“You could take him one day,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “We could take him.” Clint forces a smile across his lips as something heavy drops into his throat.

“I was thinking maybe I’d start with the piano,” he says hoarsely, and Natasha nods against his body, playing with his hands.

“Bow fingers,” she says a little casually and he finds himself laughing as the cold from outside sends a distinct shiver through his bones. He pulls Natasha closer on instinct as the small group of children swathed in coats and scarves and boots pass by the barn, the trill of melodies getting louder and then slightly softer as they make their way across terrain blanketed in fresh snow, disappearing into the distance.

Clint leans his head against the glass pane as the last of the “ _silent nights_ ” drift into silence and he’s still watching the way small flakes of white intermingle with the darkening sky when he feels her breath on the side of his face. The quiet folds its arms over them like a blanket, and he lets her wrap herself around his waist, and when the smile curve over her lips, it feels like the closest they’ve ever been to home.


End file.
